Not Meant To Be
by kissesatMidNight
Summary: I never meant to like you. And love was out of question! All the years I didn't speak to you, or her, or him, all the tears.I never meant to bring him into the picture. I'm sorry. We have to fix this,we weren't meant to be. Please stop. For him. For her.
1. Chapter 1

The gentle noise of heavy, even breathing filled the light, airy room. Moonlight peeked in through the transluscent lace curtains, and bounced off of the emerald hued walls. A soft yellow light emanated from the lamp that was positioned neatly on an antique bedside table, alongside neatly stacked French textbooks and historical books.

To complete the pristine picture of peace, a tall redheaded girl snuggled cozily underneath the feathery blankets of her bed, her long-lashed, jewel-colored eyes closed, and her chest heaving in time to her breathing.

On spur of moment, the door to this peaceful room was thrust open with an obnoxious _BANG!_, and in walked a raven-haired, dark-eyed, intelligent-looking woman. She cautiously made her way to the bed, and gently peeled the covers back, instantly rolling her eyes when she saw her fiery-haired daughter curled into a ball, sound asleep.

The woman glanced at her silver wristwatch, letting out an impatient sigh as she did so, then glanced at her daughter. A smile played up on her lips as she realized why she would have the privilege to do right now.

"Hope," the woman whispered as loud as she could, attempting to arouse her daughter all the while breaking the tranquility of the atmosphere in the room. "Wake up, babe. You've been asleep for three hours, and our "guests" are starting to arrive."

The redhead, Hope, turned to her other side, grumbling softly: "school already? Just five more minutes, mom."

Hope's mother chuckled amusedly, and planted her hands on her hips, watching Hope slowly fall back into a slumber.

Sighing in mock dejection, she took into her hands the many quilts and blankets, and harshly tugged them away, leaving Hope to flinch, and hug herself for warmth.

Desperate to win the fight (despite the fact that she was only wearing a thin, oversized t-shirt), Hope kept her eyelids firmly closed. After a few moments however, the cold reached the "freezing" level, and Hope shot out of bed, glaring at her mother as she undid her ponytail.

"I so, totally hate you right now, Mom," Hope dramatically declared, showcasing her admirable teenage stubbornness.

Hope's mother laughed, then replied, "go get dressed. Something nice please."

"Why?" Hope queried, tilting her head slightly to the right, attempting to fight back her drowsiness.

"Because, Miss Head-in-the-clouds, our family is starting to arrive. It's the night of the reunion," chirped Hope's mum, pulling out a silk sheath dress.

Hope widened her eyes, "that's now? As in, like, right now?"

"Mm-hmm, that's right," Hope's mom trilled, holding up a black choker and a pair of black pumps. "In fact, I remember you grumbling that the main reason you were going up to your room to "study" was because you couldn't spend a second with a group of "stuffy, overdressed, evil losers"." She turned around and gave Hope "The Eyes".

Hope groaned, her forehead in her hands. Her Mom was planning to make her look all pretty, prance downstairs, and party with evil old people who would all be carrying numerous weapons and lethal poisons.

Her Mom was so out to get her.

**(****Two tantrums, three bribes, fourteen threats, and nine glasses of imported wine later...)**

I hate my Mom right now. I just hate her. I can't believe that she actually considered disturbing me from my well-deserved cat-nap. Except I'm not a cat. But wait, it gets better. She actually decided to make me wear a pretty (not to mention uncomfortable) dress along with the heels, jewelry, and makeup I usually steer clear of. Then, to seal the deal, I have to come downstairs and hear old people blabbering on about whatever god-forsaken topic. I'm usually a fairly optimistic person, and I'm never really much of a Crabby Cathy, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Event the stupid cat with its stupid red snapper gets to freaking sleep!

I swear, if I hear another "Hope, look how tall you are," or even worse, "Hope, look how beautiful you've gotten!" I. Will. Scream. And not a pathetic wail either. I'm talking a disturbing, bloodcurdling screech that will haunt you for the rest of your life.

Swirling the dark red contents of my wine glass around, I sighed, pitying myself for actually having to succumb to drowning my sorrow in alcohol. I'm not an alcoholic, but once again: desperate times call for desperate measures.

I was so busy mourning myself, that I didn't notice the brunette that bumped into me.

"Ouch, hey!"

"Hey, yourself!"

"Excuse me, but you bumped into me!"

"I beg to differ! You were standing in my way!"

"Well you could've asked me to move!"

"Excuse me, but I really don't give a damn."

"Hey! If I wanted a freaking bitch, I would've called the dog next door!"

"Ugh, I really don't have time for this! Stop your smart-ass comments, and let me pass!"

I rolled my eyes, deeply annoyed by this princess-wannabe who accused me of making smart-ass comments! I mean, I only made one! And _she _started it! I was about to tell her his, when she asked me a question: "you're Hope Cahill, aren't you?"

I nodded, briefly wondering how and why she knew me when I'd never spoken to her before.

"Yup, that's right. And you are?" I queried, studying the girl. She had a petite frame, several inches shorter that my five-foot-nine (,I know I'm freakishly tall! We don't have to talk about how the stupid awkward fairy skipped the rest of my effing family and gave me the tall-and-clumsy genes), but artificially my height in six-inch heels. Her hair, a dark, rich, chocolatey brown, was in a French twist. Her face was perfectly heart shaped, and her large, striking eyes, the color of dark honey, contrasted perfectly with her cherry froster lips. Her skin was lightly tanned, and she looked to be about my age, if not a little older. At first glance, she was the picture of classical beauty, but on closer observation, I realized she had on quite a bit of makeup.

"Isabel Vesper-Hollingsworth, Lucian," she said, observing me the way I was observing her. I also noticed that she had one of those, sexy, low, british-accented voices. Except when she was whining to me three seconds ago. Then her voice was as sexy as a potato.

"I'm obliged to say that it is a pleasure meeting you. If it wasn't then I would be saying words that are much too inappropriate for the stupid rating, 'T' ," I grudgingly announced, holding out my hand for her to shake.

After staring at my hand like in was infected with deadly germs, she reluctantly held out her own paraffin waxed, Brazilian manicured hand, and pulled away hastily after shaking my hand.

We were blanketed by an awkward silence for a few moments, until Isabel gestured at my glass. "Is that wine?" she asked, probably just trying to break the ice.

I nodded in confirmation,"yeah, it is. Would you like some?" I offered, already pouring out the imported _Chateau Loudenne _into a glass. My reflexes have become very used to this wine-pouring motion; I've already had nearly half a bottle, and it's a wonder I'm not drunk.

Isabel bit into her lower lip, gazing longingly at the glass. "I shouldn't, really," she seemed to be murmuring to herself more than she was to me," but it's just a glass. Why not?"

She pried the glass out of my hands, and smiled at me in thanks. This smile surprisingly seemed genuine and kind, and I decided that her sullenness made her appear more fake and plastic than she really was. That doesn't mean I _like_ her. She's just less of a barbie-like prep than I thought she would be. _Less of._

Isabel attempted akin ladylike sips, but then ended up draining the entire glass in one gulp, and holding it out for more.

"God, I _miss_ alcohol. My mother gets pissed whenever my sisters or I get our hands on a single bottle, so I haven't had any in ages!" She breathed excitedly before I filled her glass and she drained it in the blink of an eye. Like, an ant's eye. Or th eye of a bacterium, if they even _have _eyes. They probably don't.

I grinned at her, "well, she's not here, so what the hell? Knock yourself out!"

She laughed as I refilled her glass for the third time, and returned my grin before drinking. "You're not as bad as I presumed you would be. I actually like you!"

"You know what? I think I like you too!" I agreed, laughing as I drank from my own glass. Okay maybe I liked her a _little _bit. I suppose princess-wannabes can be kind of cool too. I just don't understand why I spent the rest of the evening talking to her and finishing three big, and I mean _big, _bottles of wine. It's not like I liked her _that _much. Or maybe I did. I don't really know.

**Hi. God, that was a lame first word to start my first author's note with! Okay, so I'm Tiana's/ .Death's cousin, and she's passed this story onto me via her will. She died. **

**Okay, no she didn't, but the point is I have the right to write this story, 'kay? Tell me what you think, I would love your feedback! **


	2. Chapter 2

Lip gloss?

She slid the pink tube out of her purse and applied it to her lips with great care, peering into a mirror the entire time.

Check. Hair?

She checked her dark breast-length locks, flat-ironed and hairspray-ed to perfection, swept up over one shoulder.

Check. Shoes?

She slipped her slim black flats off, placing them to the side, and stared at the black Gucci box sitting at her feet. Taking a deep breath, she pulled of the lid, and after pulling out a mass of crinkly black paper, stared down at her worst enemies: stiletto heels. Black and sleek, and all the rage in Paris, she was obliged to wear them to impress _him_.

"May the force of Jane Cahill be with me," she muttered, slightly ashamed and aware of the fact that what she did was really nerdy.

She gingerly placed her feet inside the shoes, squeezing her black-lined eyes shut as she did so. Good God. If she was this bad when she was sitting, what would she do standing?

Maybe it would give her an excuse to lean on _him_, she thought with a shy smile, her cheeks tinted rose.

"Miss," her driver addressed, rolling down the window, chocolate brown eyes looking into her own sharp gray ones (via rearview mirror), "we have arrived."

She inhaled deeply, the artificial lemon aroma of the car hitting her nostrils, and checked her appearance for the last time.

She looked really pretty. Beautiful, even. Gone were the paint splattered fingers, the frizzy hair, and the glasses. No, it was all replaced by contact lenses, sleek, shiny hair, and manicured nails. She was ready.

Hearing a "click" as the door was opened, she stepped out.

Cora Cahill had never been more ready for anything.

If you asked me what was on my mind, at any time of day or any time in the night, I would answer with two words. Two beautiful words: Vikram Kabra.

Actually, right now, if you'd asked me anything, even my name, I wouldn't be able to answer. Why, might you ask? Because the boy who was addressed by those two beautiful words was standing a few feet away from me, flute of champagne in his hand, silky, dark curls, and immaculate suit (hiding a perfectly sculpted, bronze chest).

Oh my God.

Vikram Kabra is standing next to me.

He. Is. Standing. Next. To. Me.

Oh my effing God.

I didn't know why I was so in love with Vikram Kabra. Yes, you heard right. Cora Cahill is deeply, madly, irrevocably in love with Vikram Kabra.

Laugh all you want, but years from now, when I'm wealthy Mrs. Kabra, wonderful husband and a million dollars in my pocket, and you're a prostitute who even has to work part time at Burger King to afford half a slice of moldy bread, I will be the one in peals of laughter.

"-know them?" Vikram trilled smoothly, flicking his hand in the direction of two pretty girls near the refreshments (and alcohol) tables.

I frowned slightly, bothered by the fact that he was checking out other girls when I had dressed up for him. (He didn't know that though.)

"Pardon?" I said, using my brilliant acting skills to hide the fact that I was breathless.

"Those girls," he said, jutting his chin out slightly, his hair momentarily falling out of his eyes (and making me woozy in the process), "do you know them?"

I squinted across the room, spying the statuesque redhead and petite brunette he was pointing towards. Damn it. They _were_ really pretty.

"The redhead is Grace Cahill's daughter, I think. And the brunette I don't know. I assume she is from your branch though," I said, trying to imitate his regal form of speech.

"She is," my greek god answered simply, continuing to study the girls, sipping champagne. He didn't bother telling me her name.

"They appear to be having some sort of argument," Vikram murmured, more to himself than to me.

"Mmm," I agreed hesitantly, not really wanting to have a conversation about two hoes who just came out of no where to steal Vikram's attention.

As I studied Vikram, he studied the girls (with great but well-concealed interest): his golden pupils glowed in the soft light, long, dark eyelashes wavering over them, casting shadows over his sharp cheekbones.

Pinch me.

He suddenly cast those eyes towards me, his eyes seemed to glint with amusement. Probably because my cheeks were turning so damn red.

Stupid boy.

"Let's _accidentally_ eavesdrop," he muttered, the corners of his mouth turning upwards.

"What?" I said, snapping out of my trance, woken up by the timbre of his voice.

"We an go over there," I think I blushed as he said "we", "and _accidentally_ overhear something," he suggested, making quotation marks with his fingers.

"Sure," I replied, shyly I think, absolutely tongue-tied.

Vikram and I casually strolled over to a spot near the two girls, walking and talking normally. I am a brilliant actor, and he is a brilliant Lucian.

What the hell, he's a brilliant everything.

"Listen," Vikram whispered sexily to me, peering at them over my shoulder. His breath tickled my ear.

Having my back to them, I observed their reflection on a giant floor length window a few feet away from me.

"Your parents probably put you up to this," the fiery redhead spat, narrowing her eyes. I couldn't tell what color they were, but I could see the hurt her eyes held, and how fierce she was right now and how much fiercer she could be. I don't know why, but I immediately had some sort of respect for her.

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about, Hope," the plastic brunette replied, widening her eyes in innocence, faking a look of confusion. I know an actress when I see one, and this girl (who would bring shame upon the fake-ness of even barbie dolls) was one.

"You don't need to pretend, Isabel, " Hope whimpered, her jewel-colored eyes filling with unshed tears, "what branch is Hope Cahill from? What branch is Grace Cahill from?" Hope said in a mocking tone, rolling her eyes. God she was weak.

"That's all that matters to you isn't it?" Hope murmured, hurt. I rest my case.

"I just asked you what branch you were part of! I didn't mean anything!" Isabel exclaimed, seeming outraged. "Besides," she continued, "my parents didn't put me up to this, I wanted to do it myself!"

Hope's eyes widened, and her lips parted as her eyes, narrowed threateningly. "You little bitch," she breathed, "'befriending me because I'm a 'direct source', and asking me about what branch I'm in is _not _cool, Isabel."

Isabel rolled her eyes as Hope turned away from her and poured more wine into her glass. Poor girl is going to be hungover tomorrow morning.

"Well, that was interesting," Vikram said, eyes flashing as he noted the event down in his mind.

Suddenly, the brunette in the argument, Isabel, saw us, or rather Vikram, and made her way over to us. Damn.

"Hello Vikram," she breathed, voice silky and seductive. I may as well have not been there. Evil little slut; I was now on Team Hope.

"Hello Isabel," Vikram said, courteous smile on his face before he brushed his lips on the back of her hand. "Looking as gorgeous as ever."

A girlish giggle escaped from Isabel's cherry-red, fake lips ,and she batted her fake eyelashes. British bimbo probably wasn't even british. She probably just washed off of Jersey Shore. What's next? Fake boobs? Fake ass?

I was really tempted to ask.

My vision blurred as I watched the conversation of the two "old friends" get deeper and deeper, and my eyes darted from left to right as I yearned for a way to stop this conversation.

"So Isabel," Isabel turned (reluctantly may I add) away from Vikram, and fixated her golden gaze on me, "you had a skirmish with Hope Cahill!" I said this like it was winning the lottery, million-watt smile on my face and all.

Stupid girl didn't even know whether she should've been offended, embarrassed, or flattered.

Vikram was looking at me with an odd half smile on his face; it was the kind he wore when he was amused.

"Well, I wouldn't call it-" Isabel started, but she stopped abruptly, tilting her head to the right as she squinted slightly.

Vikram's eyebrows were raised too, and he looked confused as well.

"Excuse me, Miss," I spun around and found my chauffeur looking down at me, his brown eyes holding back some sort of emotion, "you forgot this," he murmured, handing me the lip gloss I used in the car earlier.

I stared at the lip-gloss for a second confused, and looked up at my chauffeur. The chauffeurs I had before didn't, and weren't expected to, find things I'd "forgotten" in my car and bring them to me when I was in the middle of a social event.

"I thought you might need it," he added sheepishly, reading my baffled expression. "I apologize if I caused you any inconvenience," he added, doffing his cap.

He then turned around and walked away, disappearing into the swarm of people.

For a moment I forgot about Vikram and British boy-stealer. I was just amazed at the fact that my chauffeur, who was just a boy, really, would actually be sensitive enough to think that I would need my lip gloss. It was a small act, but as an artist and a Janus, I've learnt that a beautiful picture is constructed of subtle details that everybody overlooks. This details come together, and form something breathtaking, rich, and full of life. The strokes of paint look like trash when you gaze at them from a few inchs away, but when you take a step back and drink in the colors and emotion distributed in the painting, you will see something amazing.

Someday, I know that boy is probably going to be part of something beautiful.

**Hi :) Okay, I'm not even going to apologize. I have a new chapter coming up hopefully soon, like Friday or Saturday. I had fun writing Cora, and even though I ship Hope/Vikram, I guess Cora deserves some love too. So, can anyone guess who Cora's chauffeur is? Haha, the whole lipgloss thing is like an improved version of my cousin's random catfight in her fifth chapter. **

**JesseCPK: Thanks for your review. Haha, I knew this would confuse people :) This story is going to be about the "older" generation of the hunt. Not like Grace old, like Eisenhower, Cora, Vikram, Arthur, etc. And there are going to be a million love triangles in this. I have a chart... Good question...I'm not sure why I didn't call her Grace. Maybe because I hadn't "introduced" her, if you know what I mean. Thanks! I will try to make my chapters a liiiiittle longer.**

**Clara0414: Thanks for noticing that, I didn't think anyone would pick up on my subtle touches. Actually, it wasn't intentional...I'll be careful next time. No they're in the U.S...you wil see...*evil smile*. Well, Isabel's back to normal now :) You're right...god, I was really distracted. The deed has been done. Thank you, I was a little worried about my perspective change as well. There will be a plot...this is just the beginning. The first four chapters or so will be like an introduction to the characters, and how they're lives are linked. Thank you!**

**Next Chapter: Hope, Vikram, Alistair, Irina, **


	3. Chapter 3

Loud, obnoxious music echoed throughout the ball room as barely sober or drunk minors danced in a crazy fashion- some missing particular articles of clothing and flashing skin that need not be seen.

The darkness of the room was lessened by a few spotlights someone had installed, and the prominent light kept focusing on different people. The entire room smelled of kool-aid, perfume, and sweat, and several girls, who had been claimed by alcohol that night, were dancing on tables, too drunk to care that they were attracting the attention of many perverted males.

You may have assumed that the inside of a club was being described.

Well, you assumed wrong.

This was the Cahill family reunion at two o'clock in the morning. The older generation had gone to their rooms, or went off to their hotels, resting before the next tedious day of socializing with enemies.

The younger generation, on the other hand, were partying their panties off.

Grace Cahill, who firmly believed that all young people deserved a chance to be wild and express themselves, did not object- as long as nobody died or fed Saladin chocolate, she did not mind.

One of the girls dancing on the tables happened to be none other than the wild Hope Cahill. Her red hair was tumbling down her back, slightly frizzy from the humid air, her pumps were long gone, lost in one of the trees in the garden, her eyeliner was smudged, and the hem of her dress was a _little_ lower than it had been earlier. Her choker was loose, her cheeks were flushed, and she was, to put it bluntly, incredibly drunk.

Tsk tsk, poor girl has no idea what will happen next.

She might never know.

* * *

My head was throbbing so hard, I could barely hear the music and was jumping to the beat my head provided. All I saw were people, teenagers, young adults enjoying themselves. I could hear claps an screams, but I has no idea why was going on; I was deliriously drunk.

Without warning, I toppled of the table, incredibly tipsy, and felt strong hands grab my elbows, saving me from the fall.

My vision was blurred, but I could make out a boy with luminous amber eyes, studying me.

"You're drunk," he said in a refined, rich British accent. His voice sounded distant and far-away, like he was speaking to me using a choppy phone service.

"No," I slurred, avoiding a fall by grasping his shoulders firmly. "What's your name?" I garbled, tracing his jaw. Did I mention that when I'm drunk, I'm a total slut?

Well, I am.

The boy smirked seeming interested, than his smirk vanished as quickly as it came. "You are drunk," he scolded, "I must not take advantage of you." He seemed to be speaking more to himself than to me, and he began to firmly tug me in the direction of the door.

When I realized what he was doing I dug my heels into the ground, determined to stay. "No!" I said, resembling a spoilt child who'd been denied sweets. "I want to sta-y here and dri-nk beer!" I hiccuped, before giggling. "Hey, that rhymed!"

The boy didn't answer and successfully yanked me outside, shutting the door so that only a faint thumping noise could be heard from the outside.

I scowled at him, crossing my arms, trying not to fall over, and he gave me an arrogant half-smile in return.

Men these days.

"Well, are you going to rape me?" I pouted,still pissed about the fact that I had to leave.

The boy raised his eyebrows, and shook his head slightly. "No. I have no plans to rape you tonight."

"Then what do you want?" I demanded furiously, stomping my foot like a child.

"Company," he answered simply, pulling me down the long foyer, and directing me up the stairs.

"You brought me out of there because you want company?" I spat, enraged. Then a serene smile spread over my features. "Cum-puh-nay!" I murmured trying to mimic his accent. "Cum-puh-nay!" I repeated laughingly, amused by this.

"That, and the fact that you were insanely drunk," he added thoughtfully, rubbing his chin, ignoring my horrendous accent-mimicing skills.

Regaining some sense, I threw a scorching glare his way, and crossed my arms over my chest. "Am not!" I protested, stomping my bare foot on the ground.

"Really, now?" He amusedly asked, lifting an eyebrow and leaning against railing as we took a break from walking up the stairs.

"You're evil," I pouted out of the blue, "you're like an evil British person!" I thought for a minute, before continuing: "you're like Simon Cowell!"

The corners of his mouth lifted up in an infuriating smirk. "Oh, I'm so insulted!" he remarked sarcastically, before shaking his head and bursting into laughter. Even his laughter was smooth and slippery; kind of like a snake.

Stupid evil snake dude was getting on my nerves.

Insulted, I started thumping down the stairs, a deep scowl etched on my face.

"Excuse me!" the boy called, waving his hand in the air. "Hello! Redhead!" he shouted, following me.

"Go away!" I yelled. Then I spotted half a can of beer on one of the steps, and still half-delirious, I picked it up, the cool metal grazing my hand, and gulped it down, not caring about where it had been. The boy's eyes were locked on my face in shock, as if he couldn't comprehend what he was seeing. I was already deeply drunk, now I was going to probably going to have slurred speech for the rest of my life.

I dropped the empty can, hearing a loud "clang" as it hit the floor, groaning as I felt the cool burn of alcohol as it flowed through me, hitting my toes.

"Redhead?" Brit-boy said hesitantly, blinking.

I smirked slightly, swinging my arms around his neck, drunk silly. "Loosen up," I slurred, tracing his jaw with my finger.

The boy, stricken, grabbed my wrists and jerked my arms away from him. "You. Are. Drunk." he enunciated slowly, bending down and looking me in the eyes. Totally nuts, I took advantage of his bending down to lean in and cover his lips with my own. He was absolutely frozen for moment, but after overcoming his shock he picked me up and placed me on the banister, fiercely responding.

The kiss was spicy and sweet at the same time. It was messy, passionate, and vibrant, full of motion. As my fingers ran through that dark hair, over that muscular chest, his arms wrapped themselves around my waist, those hands planting themselves on my hips.

All of a sudden I pulled back, feeling a wave of nausea, and hopped off the banister. I could feel my dinner creeping up my throat, and I hunched over and hacked it all up at the boy's feet. A disgusted look tainted his handsome features, and he stepped back a mile. As I coughed and wiped my mouth, the boy's features softened just a little, and he handed me a silk handkerchief, with the initials "V.K" embroidered upon them.

"Thanks," I croaked, my vision blurring slightly as I took the handkerchief. I nearly toppled over again, but the boy caught me again, and he half-carried me up the stairs, muttering about drunk girls, kisses, and vomit.

As we walked through the halls, I nearly fell over again, and this time the boy just groaned and began carrying me, one hand underneath my knees, the other on my back.

Swinging open the door to one of the many dozen guest rooms, he walked over to the plain bed, set with vanilla and cream colored blankets, and placed me down.

As he was about to turn around and leave, I moaned, causing him to turn and shoot me a quizzical look.

"Shoes," I murmured, wiggling my bare feet, "on my toesies!"

He rolled his eyes and strode back to the bed, sighing: "you don't have any shoes," he said carefully, pronouncing each syllable with great care as if speaking to a two-year old. Or a Tomas.

Ha-ha. I'm funny. Even when I'm drunk.

As he turned to leave, I reached out with all the strength I had, and grasped his hand.

"Stay."

Those words started something. Something not so innocent. Something involving bare skin, tongue-grazing, and deep kisses. Something I had never done before, and shouldn't have done until marriage.

Don't get me wrong, it wasn't that bad. It's not like we did it for a long time anyway. I was still innocent!

Oh who am I kidding?

I was so not innocent.

* * *

** Okay, so I've been really busy with voice lessons, guitar practice, tennis, French homework, and eating brownies, that I wasn't able to update! I've had this ready for like three days... sorry... if you care! My next chapter will probably be looked over by a beta, so I'm excited about that! Oh, and to apologize, I've included an excerpt of the fourth chapter; like the part thats written in third person perspective. Enjoy! And review! Pretty pretty please! OKay here's the excerpt:**

In the garden directly below the window of the room in which Hope and Vikram were currently engaged in, a tall, slim girl sat stiffly cross-legged, trying to escape from the boisterous actions taking place inside the mansion.

The cool night air grazed against Irina Spasky's ivory cheeks, and her lips were numb with cold. Platinum blonde hair hung jet-straight to her chin, sapphire blue eyes flashing in the moonlight. She was dressed in a simple white cotton v-neck, and a pair of khakis were rolled up to her knees, and her feet were covered in white rubber flip-flops. Irina never was one to care about how she dressed. As long as she looked presentable, to herself she was beautiful enough.

Wait.

Was she beautiful? Was she really? And what did beautiful mean anyway? What is beauty? An why did Irina care? What did Irina have to lose?  
All this led to the biggest question of all:

Who was Irina?

Sometimes even Irina didn't know.


End file.
